HOW MY PASTOR’S MIC CAUGHT FIRE DURING “HOLY GHOST FIRE”
HOW MY PASTOR’S MIC CAUGHT FIRE DURING “HOLY GHOST FIRE”
It was a Sunday morning, the kind where the air smells of incense, fried plantain, and anticipation. The congregation had assembled, their Sunday best immaculate, their shoes polished enough to reflect the ceiling lights, and their smiles perfectly rehearsed for any surprise visitors. But none of us were prepared for what was about to unfold. The spiritual ROI on our Sunday attendance was about to skyrocket.
. Pastor Ezekiel, known for his booming voice, dramatic gestures, and impeccable tie collection, had promised a “Holy Ghost Fire Service.” We assumed the fire would be metaphorical, the kind that ignites your spirit. Little did we know, literal physics and perhaps a poorly maintained microphone were about to intervene. It was like expecting a stock market dip and getting a full-blown crypto crash—unexpected, chaotic, and slightly thrilling.
The service started as usual. The choir sang with harmony so perfect, it could have influenced fintech algorithms to rebalance portfolios in real-time. Ushers were positioned like miniature soldiers, baskets in hand, ready to collect offerings with military precision and the efficiency of a high-frequency trading bot. Everything was perfect, except for the microphone, the unsuspecting gateway to financial and spiritual fireworks.
This mic had probably survived the dot-com bubble, several recessions, and countless offering collections. Sturdy, black, and shiny, it was completely unsuspecting of the chaos it was about to witness. Pastor Ezekiel approached the podium with confidence, lifted the mic, and declared, “Today, we shall experience the true fire of the Holy Spirit!” Little did we know, sparks—both literal and metaphorical—were already pricing in.
The congregation erupted in applause, hallelujahs, and faint coughing from the incense. Then, a faint odor arose, like burnt hair mixed with despair and a hint of charred cryptocurrency. Some people frowned. Others whispered: “Is that incense, or did someone forget toast in the kitchen?” Meanwhile, the pastor’s voice grew louder, more powerful, more “Holy Ghost intense,” and the mic, apparently, decided spiritual intensity required literal heat—an unplanned hedge against boredom.
Without warning, a tiny spark flickered at the base of the microphone. People gasped. One brave woman dropped her offering envelope in shock. The choir froze mid-note, like traders holding positions during market volatility. Pastor Ezekiel, oblivious, continued preaching: “The fire is coming, I feel it in my spirit!” The ROI on panic was astronomical.
By the second verse of the worship song, the spark became a small flame. The congregation murmured in confusion, some pointing, others inching toward exits. Sunday morning decorum prevented anyone from running. The ushers, ever committed, had a different idea. Gideon, head usher and part-time adrenaline junkie, attempted to extinguish the flame with his offering basket.
He swung it dramatically like a firefighter in a movie, but only succeeded in scattering envelopes across the pews. Coins clinked, notes fluttered, and a particularly brave ten-dollar bill landed on the pastor’s head. This was like watching a diversified investment portfolio scatter in a market crash. Meanwhile, the choir tried to maintain composure. The lead soprano muttered, “I didn’t sign up for a fire hazard, I signed up for hymns.”
The pianist began playing slightly faster, as if tempo could outrun the flames. Pastor Ezekiel, still unaware, raised his arms in divine exaltation. “This is the true fire! Holy Ghost fire!” Sparks flew higher. People began recording, whispering, “This is going viral. TikTok will explode.” The market for spiritual content had just hit an all-time high.
By the third minute, the microphone had fully committed to rebellion. Flames licked the edges, smoke curled like a mischievous spirit, and one small bird—or was it an angelic hedge fund analyst?—flew past the stained glass in disbelief. Some members attempted intervention. Auntie Grace, armed with a hymnbook, tried to smother the mic. It was like attempting to stop a high-frequency trade with a napkin.
Smoke billowed. Congregants smelled burnt polyester and holy panic. Pastor Ezekiel finally noticed. His eyes widened in the way only someone who has preached thousands of sermons can widen: the look of “I did not prepare for THIS.” “Holy Spirit!” he shouted, pointing at the mic like it personally betrayed him. “Come on! We need discernment, people!”
But the mic had other plans. Sparks jumped audibly. A small flame now danced at the tip, like a solo performance in the stock market of miracles. Someone shouted, “It’s literally the Holy Ghost fire!” Chaos erupted. People ran for phones to capture the moment. One man tripped over a hymnbook, slid across the aisle like a financial analyst avoiding a margin call, and landed in the offering box.
The ushers, determined not to be outshined, improvised. One fanned the mic with a church bulletin, another sprayed what was probably holy water, and a third performed a dramatic dive that could have qualified for an Olympic medal if judges weren’t screaming. ROI on chaos? Instant and spectacular.
Pastor Ezekiel seized the moment. “Behold!” he declared, pointing to the burning mic. “If the Holy Ghost can set a microphone on fire, what can He do to your heart?” Everyone nodded, some enthusiastically, others too afraid to argue while flames danced inches away. The spiritual stock market of faith had just gone bullish.
The fire eventually died down—or perhaps went into a spiritual retreat—leaving behind a slightly charred mic and an unforgettable Sunday memory. Pastor Ezekiel wiped his brow and said, “Praise God for miracles!” Social media exploded. Memes appeared within minutes: Pastor Ezekiel photoshopped with a cape, mic edited to breathe fire, captions like “When you preach too hard, even the tech equipment gets holy.” Passive income from viral content? Imminent.
The ushers were hailed as heroes, partially for their efforts, mostly for their chaos. Auntie Grace demanded hazard pay. Choir requested a permanent fire extinguisher near the piano. Pastor? He began considering fireproof microphones while secretly plotting a sermon series titled “Spiritual Heat: When God Turns Up the Temperature.” Financially savvy or spiritually dramatic? Perhaps both.
From that day forward, two new traditions emerged:
1. Always bring a fire extinguisher to services.
2. Expect the unexpected. And occasionally, a microphone that might combust mid-sermon.
The moral? Holy Ghost fire manifests in mysterious ways. Sometimes it touches hearts. Sometimes it touches microphones. Sometimes it produces the most hilariously unforgettable Sunday service. Consider the ROI: priceless, viral, and spiritually hedged.
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